


Soaring

by ingridmatthews



Category: Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flying ... and falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
ditzy  
---|---  
**Entry tags:** |  [fic:sports](http://ingridmatthews.livejournal.com/tag/fic:sports)  
  
_ **RPS FIC: Soaring** _

Yes, I did it, because I couldn't resist. It's Olympic RPS, the fanfic of champions!

Title: Soaring  
Fandom: Olympic RPS  
Word Count: 2,050  
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek  
Rating: R, for sexual situations  
Summary: Flying ... and falling.  
Note: The banner is more for reference of what they look like, but can double as a fic cover.

 

**SOARING  
by ingrid**

~*~

The morning suitcase packing is his mother's ritual, has been since the senior World's.

Evan lets her do because he's bad at it and because it soothes her -- the careful folding, the 'tsking' over the mismatched socks he's rolled up into balls and thrown in some corner of the Olympic dorm room he's lived -- and died -- in for the past week.

His arms still hurt from the IVs they'd fumbled to put into him after he couldn't stop vomiting for hours at a time three nights ago. This spectacular failure of his body happened to coincide, ironically enough, with the terrible failure of his mind to force itself into thinking that Evan Lysacek _is_ worthy of a gold medal, thus tripping him at the precise moment when he should have flown.

He made up for it during the next skate - the long program - big time. That _something_ that lives and breathes fire inside of him wouldn't let him fail twice, no matter how much his body protested.

Rising from the ashes, like a phoenix, someone had said, but for him it was less a rising and more a redemption.

Because he _is_ worthy and can prove it or die trying.

Behind him, his mother pulls last night's costume from the closet. She brushes down its black ruffles and carefully tucks the red adornments back into the sleeves and neck, one at a time.

Her hands run reverently over its shoulders and her smile, it shines like gold and Evan is glad for her love, the one thing he'll never have to compete for.

~*~

He returns to the ice that afternoon, even though he doesn't have to.

Like all the other skaters, Evan's drawn to it, like a duck to a pond. He's surprised to see Weir there, sitting on a warming bench, dressed in a drab gray tee, jeans and sneakers instead of his typical quirky casual attire, usually consisting of a Mickey Mouse shirt, fur-covered boots and a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than Evan's entire outfit combined.

They are teammates, but not exactly friends, although any enemity comes from the natural tension of extreme competitiveness.

It's the nature of sport, and when the heat is on, they try not to take things like silence too personally.

Evan knows Johnny's just had the worst night of his life, so he doesn't push it. He merely sits there beside him, watching the women warm up, soothed by the rhythm of their spins, chuckling inwardly, but not unkindly, when one of the Russian girls pulls a flop.

They don't fall very often, the Russians, especially not Plushenko, no, never Plushenko, who could slice a loaf of bread with his skates mid-air during a triple axle if it would gain him a better score.

He's nowhere around and Evan is relieved. Even talking to him is intimidating, forget skating against him.

Yevgeny isn't "good" at what he does, unless you'd say the same thing about God when He skates. He's untouchable -- omnipotent -- and Evan remembers that Weir once called him a 'rock star', nodding with the respect skaters give each other when they see a fellow eagle in flight.

Evan wonders if Weir still thinks that or if the bitterness of defeat has soured even that little bit of hero worship. Plushenko soared, while Johnny pulled a rare flop and later blamed it on the bus being late.

Evan didn't laugh at that, not even when the others snickered all through breakfast. He himself had blamed the 'flu' for his crumble, while in truth it was failure that made him so sick, the idea that he'd blown the _Olympics_, of all things and that _this_ would be his lifelong legacy - a decade of hard labor crystallized into two minutes of abject humiliation, broadcast for the entire world to see.

Maybe it was a blessing that he'd blown the short. He got his second chance, but Johnny would have to wait for his and if Evan knew anything about Weir, he wasn't someone famous for his patience.

"Nice pullout," Weir says to Evan out of nowhere, making him start a little with surprise.

He's not sure how much to say in reply, so he decides that less is better. "Thank you."

Johnny crosses his legs and hugs one knee close. "You need to work on your setup. You swung out low twice."

Evan thinks about this for a minute. He has a golden opportunity right here to pull out the snarkiest of replies - because he who soars last wins - but there's something about Weir; the honesty, a touch of guileless and innocence hiding behind the careless facade, that he finds himself nodding in polite agreement instead.

"I did." Evan laughs at little at the memory. "I wasn't going to break my hip again just to give Yevgeny another notch in his blades."

Johnny cocks his head to one side, his eyes wide with concern. "You broke your _hip_. Oh my God, when?"

"Long time ago." Shortly, because injuries really aren't something they talk about all that much. Bad luck. "Hurts more than ..."

"Fifth place?" Johnny's mouth turns down sourly. "Bitch, please."

Said with a flamboyant huff, and that breaks the proverbial ice. Evan laughs and Johnny actually breaks a slight grin and suddenly, the Olympics are just another event that's thankfully over and done with.

Just as suddenly, they are friends and when Johnny says "Let's go and make fun of the snowboarders." Evan easily agrees.

Later, when Johnny jumps up and down on the sidelines during the men's races yelling, "Fuck the Flying Tomato, _I_ am the Flying Princess, bitches! Me!"

"Shut up, loser!" someone yells back and Evan thinks he's going to throw up again, this time from laughing, especially when Johnny lewdly waggles his tongue at them.

"Let's go," Johnny says a few minutes later, bored already and grabbing Evan's elbow, dragging him off in the direction of the dorms. "If I look at these hideous uniforms anymore I'm going to go blind. I'd kill myself before wearing that thing, unless I was in jail." He pauses, looking impish. "Say, you think they'd let me design their outfits? I'd make even those idiots look great."

"Oh yeah," Evan replies, biting his lip, tears of mirth hovering at the corners of his eyes. "You should definitely consider it."

"They'd be Johnny's Flying Princesses." Weir's eyes glow at the thought. "I'd have to use lots of loose material though. Their big old snowboard asses will _never_ forgive me. Oh, and light blue! So pretty against the snow. Do they have to wear those ugly helmets?"

"I think so. And the goggles."

"The goggles aren't a problem." Johnny waves his hand impatiently. "I'm friends with all sorts of people in New York who could handle that. But those helmets ..."

He babbles on as Evan breathes deeply of the cold air, feeling freer than he has in what seems like forever. He's satisfied with himself - for now - and happy for Johnny because even if his skating lets him down on occasion ...

The boy definitely knows how to fly.

~*~

They end up in Johnny's dorm together, that "dusty, uncomfortable" room that looks just like Evan's - boring but neat enough.

Certainly not like "camping" as Weir loudly proclaimed it to be to the press, but Evan humors him, sitting on the edge of Weir's bed as he describes the terrors that await in every corner, like the toilet that flushes so noisily he can barely stand to use it and the shower that has a single errant line of spray that "damages his inner peace."

Evan's sensitive too, but about different things. Very sensitive, especially when Johnny straddles his lap out of nowhere and kisses him deeply, surprising Evan with how enticing it feels. Evan returns the kiss uncertainly, until Johnny pulls back and gives him that same impish smile Evan saw over by the snowboarding arena.

_What the hell_, he thinks, pulling Johnny closer, running his hands beneath his t-shirt, feeling the lean contours of a body that's been forged into nothing but muscle and smooth skin through years and years of punishment and desire.

Weir's hands tangle in Evan's hair, his tongue exceedingly clever and it doesn't take long for Evan to grow impatient, falling back onto the bed and dragging Johnny with him.

It's a race then, to get out of their clothes and Johnny proves himself extremely flexible in this area, not caring when his shirt gets snagged or when Evan fumbles with their shoes.

He rolls over and lies there laughing, then groaning when Evan finally gets it right and swallows down Weir's hard cock without preamble.

This isn't something Evan usually does - sleep with the competition - but the Olympics _are_ a special occasion and besides, Weir is pretty when he's writhing beneath Evan's mouth, thrashing over the sheets and murmuring Evan's name again and again.

It doesn't take long and it's satisfying to see Weir's eyes go wide with pleasure before he comes. Evan's close himself and when he's pushed to his feet, he watches with fascination as Johnny sinks to his knees before him, taking him in with slow, sly movements of his hands and lips.

Oh, it's good, almost too good and Evan's forced to close his eyes as his hips pump forward. Tight and wet and hot and god, he is there, flying again, with Weir and this might be one of the best days of his life yet.

He comes and its like landing a perfect jump, even better that he's with someone who understands. When Evan looks down, he sees Weir's eyes are sparkling and he pulls him up, laughing and kissing him again, even when Johnny protests that he's all 'drippy' around the lips.

"So are you," Evan rejoins, with a squeeze to his ass.

"I _swallow_," Johnny replies primly. He waggles his eyebrows at Evan. "A skill you haven't yet mastered, like so many others I could mention, but I won't because I'm nice."

"Nice? You are an immense bitch," Evan says with a nod. "But feel free to teach me all you like."

"I might." Johnny flops onto the bed, stretching out, letting Evan admire the lines of his body, a perfect nude portrait for any artist. "But you need to teach me to fuck up the short, not the long."

Evan sits down carefully beside him. Touches his arm sympathetically. "Your time is coming. You'll see."

Johnny laughs. It's a slightly bitter sound, and his eyes harden, but only for a second. He looks lost, silently staring at the ceiling and Evan's heart aches for him, because he _knows_ this pain all too well, especially the part about how there are simply no words that can help.

Only time -- and triumph -- can do the trick.

"When are you going home?" Weir asks finally, when the silence gets too thick. "I'm getting out of here tonight, I think."

"I might stay another little while. My mother wants to see the women."

Weir nods, understanding. He pokes Evan in the side. "You'd better call me back in the states. I'll haunt your ass if you don't." A bit of excitement enters his voice. "We'll go shopping! In New York. You'd love it."

Evan does like to shop, but knows that shopping with Johnny Weir is probably a gold medal event in itself. So instead ... "We'll go out next exibition. How's that?"

"Oh, all right." Resigned and Evan can see his quick mind already moving onto something else.

Impulsively, Evan leans down to kiss Weir's nose. "Don't worry so much. Fuck 'em all."

Johnny smiles back with a grin that's as wide and open and pure as the ice he flies over. No, the ice he _soars_ over. "Honey, I have better taste than that."

~*~

end

Of course, comments are given gold medals from my heart.


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